How Sweet It Is
by sarapals with past50
Summary: Two murders send Sara and DB to a remote location while Grissom is home for a few weeks. GSR of course! And Grissom gets involved!
1. Chapter 1

_We own nothing, even less than nothing! Characters are originals to CSI and our appreciation is given to those who developed these interesting characters for television! _

_Enjoy! And, as always, we enjoy hearing from readers!_

**How Sweet It Is or Finding The End of the Rainbow**

**Chapter 1**

"Sara! Are you awake?" The masculine voice seemed to rumble with assurance that she would give him the desired answer.

"Yes, sure. I'm awake. What's going on?" Sara answered before her eyes were open, managing, as she frequently did, to press 'answer' before the ring note sounded for longer than five seconds. She always gave the same answer and her supervisor never questioned her response. Even today—her first scheduled day off in ten days—she gave her standard answer, instantly waking from a deep sleep.

Keeping the phone pressed to her ear, she slowly rolled over in bed and snuggled against her husband. Gently, he pulled her into his arms, made a low humming sound, and placed a kiss on her forehead as she answered questions from the caller.

"Give me thirty minutes and I'll be ready," she said as she ended the call. She spread her hand across the chest of her waking spouse. "Sorry, dear, work calls. D.B. says they are slammed—six car pile-up involving a bunch of politicians, a home invasion with a death, two teenagers killed in a road rage, and day shift hasn't gone home yet—you know how it goes."

"When it rains it pours." Gil Grissom mumbled; he knew her work as well, having a long career in it until he walked into retirement and to another career. "I'll make coffee. Where are you going?"

Instead of getting out of bed, Sara snuggled closer, kissing his cheek. She sighed, "I so wanted four days off—maybe this will be quick. D.B. said its two older people. Maybe murder-suicide—a neighbor called it in and a deputy is on his way out there. West of Pahrump, in those hills off Sagebrush Road—D.B. is afraid he can't find the place—it's not on his GPS."

Grissom shifted so he could hold her closer and gave an amused chuckle. "That's a confusing area—driveways turn off driveways. Back to nature old hippies and survivalists." He moved his hands along her bare back. "Did you get any sleep?"

Sara nodded. "Good, after great sex sleep," she giggled. "I love having you home," she said as she placed a kiss near his ear.

For several long minutes, they remained in bed enjoying the warmth of each other. Grissom's mouth moved gently from her forehead to her cheek to her chin and finally to her mouth where his tender touch turned into a seriously intense passionate kiss. Pulling away, he whispered, "I'll make coffee before your boss has to wait at the curb while we…"

Sara laughed quietly as she placed her hands on either side of his face. "You can stay in bed. Dream of me for a while." As she pushed up from the bed, Grissom's hand caught her breast and caressed it, running a thumb over her nipple.

"I'll be here when you return," he said with a smile. "And I'll make coffee."

Twenty minutes later, Sara's phone chimed. Her supervisor was outside. With a brief kiss, running her fingers through his white curls, she left her husband standing in the kitchen. She could have sworn man and dog made the same poignant sound as she closed the door.

Settling into the seat, Sara appreciated D.B.'s thoughtfulness; he handed her warm bagels and a cup of coffee when she got into his vehicle. Both laughed.

"Husband must be home if you have a cup of coffee at this hour," he chuckled as she clicked her seatbelt.

"He is—for two or three weeks."

D.B. quickly drove out of the city, avoiding the massive back-up on the interstate by following Sara's directions, passing storage warehouses that seemed to sprout up overnight. He nodded toward a multi-storied building. "Do you ever wonder what people put in those places?"

"I try not to think about it—seen too many hoarders—so I try to keep my possessions to a minimum." She chewed on a bagel for a minute. "Years ago, we had a case—a bizarre one even for Vegas—where a charlatan used one of these places for doing surgery."

D.B. groaned.

"And there was another case of a teacher—photography teacher at one of the high schools—used one as a studio. She ended up killing herself after some of her students died—involved in hazing, if I remember correctly." She sighed. "There's been so many…"

"A time to live and a time to die," D.B. said quietly.

"When it's your time, it's your time."

A few minutes later, D.B. said, "I hate to pull you away when Dr. Grissom is home."

"He understands." Sara swallowed the last of her coffee from home and reached for the second cup. "We—we have a great marriage, just unconventional. Unlike you and your wife who have always lived together, Gil and I have not lived together for most of our married life." Quietly, she laughed. "Truth be told, I wish he would stay but I can't ask him to give up a life-long dream—and most of the time it works great." Sara stopped talking, took a sip of coffee, deciding she had revealed enough about her personal life.

"And sometimes you go with him—I really do appreciate your willingness to work."

Changing the direction of their conversation, Sara asked about the case.

D.B. related what he knew. "A neighbor called it in. Said the wrong lights were on—or off—and the horse was making noise. After finding a broken window, he used a flashlight to look into the house. Sounded like he was very upset—woman tied up on the floor and blood everywhere and he knew the man was dead. And that's all I know." He fumbled a hand inside his pocket. "Here are directions."

They passed landmarks and drove west of Pahrump on a twisting paved road. When both thought they had passed the turnoff and were lost, Sara spotted the reflective markings of a deputy's car.

"There he is!"

The man was leaning against the car and waved as they came to a stop.

"Sorry to be so long," D.B. told the deputy.

"My partner is at the house but I called for backup—it's bad." He shook his head, "I didn't touch anything and backed out as quickly as possible. But it's no murder-suicide, that I know."

The deputy got in his car, made a fast turn, and swung ahead of D.B. and Sara on a gravel driveway that soon became little more than a dirt path. Six or seven mailboxes later, the deputy's car turned again. The driveway consisted of parallel ruts several inches deep. After a mile they were there—two sandy-brown colored houses about two hundred yards apart. One had every light turned on; the other was dark except for one lighted window. Yellow tape had been stretched around the house and included most of what passed as a yard. As the two vehicles came to a stop, an old man came hurrying toward them.

Sara noticed he walked with a limp, as if one knee bothered him. As soon as the old man reached them, she knew something truly unpleasant had happened—the man's eyes shone with a horror that could not be imaginary.

"I opened the door—I opened the door and went inside! I had to do it—Janice was alive—I heard her moaning when I had the flashlight at the window." His words were rushed, agitated, and then he started to cry.

The deputy's partner was behind the old man and calmly placed an arm around the frail shoulders, directing the man back to his house. Sara glanced at the house as she and D.B. walked to the dark house and knew she saw the white nightgown of a woman inside the lighted house. She wondered if the old couple would ever sleep again in their own home.

Both of them snapped on gloves before they reached the door.

"It's carnage in there," the deputy said quietly.

D.B. nodded and indicated the man remain outside. He said to Sara, "Booties—keep from tracking in new stuff."

They used each other for support as they placed covers over shoes. At the same time, Sara took in their surroundings. A small kitchen painted green, neat, clean, the necessities of living for two people who needed little of the modern day appliances; the metal coffee pot was unplugged, a phone with a curled cord hung on the wall, an old black skillet on a green stove top.

The house smelled old, she thought. As D.B. pushed the door closed, the odor of rusty iron drifted up her nose. Blood, she thought, lots of blood in this small isolated house.

A/N: _Thanks for reading! _


	2. Chapter 2

**How Sweet It Is**

Chapter 2

From the kitchen, Sara, taking photographs as she walked, followed her supervisor along a narrow hallway lined with family pictures of smiling girls who had grown into smiling women. Several doors were open; both used flashlights to look at a living room large enough for a sofa, two chairs and an old television set, a small bedroom with twin beds, a bathroom where towels were heaped on the floor—the first sign of disturbance in the orderly house. Nothing else seemed disturbed until they reached the bedroom at the end of the hall.

It was worse than Sara had imagined. Much worse. D.B. glanced at her as they stopped at the threshold.

"You okay?" he asked.

Sara nodded. "Who would do this?" She made her eyes turn to D.B. and realized he was thinking the same thing.

The couple's bedroom was soaked in blood—a slaughterhouse scene. The ceiling was splattered with long swaths of bright red. Blood had been splashed onto the ceiling fan blades and hurled onto walls creating a mad mosaic of red drops, whirls, and dribbles. The old man lay across a blood-soaked bed wearing a tee-shirt; his boxer shorts were tied around his ankles. His face was bloodied beyond recognition. His hands were tied behind his back. There was so much blood it took Sara a minute to realize the man's nose was gone. Then she noticed the thigh bone shining white against all the red.

"The bone is broken-shattered," she said quietly. Neither she nor D.B. had moved from the doorway.

"I think his nose was cut off," D.B. whispered. He moved his flashlight to the left of the bed. "Oh, shit," he said.

The old woman had been tied to a chair which had turned over. She had a rope tied around her neck with a complicated knot. The rope cut into her neck nearly an inch. Blood covered her face and chest; her arms were bloody from shallow cuts. Her thin nightgown was soaked.

D.B. took several steps and shone his flashlight on the woman's wrists. "She almost cut her hands off trying to loosen the rope."

"She saw everything they did."

"They?" D.B. questioned.

"At least two. Looking for something specific—from the old man. The only other room that's been disturbed is the bathroom. They were not here to steal what's in this house."

D.B. bent down beside the dead woman. "Turn on the lights, will you?" Sara flipped the switch. "And can you stop the ceiling fan."

Carefully Sara stepped forward, reached up, and pulled a chain on the fan.

The overhead light made the room appear even more macabre sending shadows of blood onto faded wallpaper already covered in blood splatter. The exposed cruelty was beyond understanding. Sara swallowed and looked around for a clean space to place her case. D.B. had put his on the floor in a pool of blood. Balancing the metal case on her leg, she said:

"I have plastic I can put down as soon as I find…"

D.B. said, "I don't think it matters. We are not going to find anyone else's blood in here. Look at how this was done—overdone! You are right—at least two people did this. Why torture two old people who appear to have lived quietly? Television is old, furniture is older—this room hasn't seen a paint brush in twenty years, maybe longer."

Sara took photographs, clicking the shutter as fast as her finger could move, trying to prevent her brain from registering what her eyes were seeing. Finding a chair in the corner, she managed to hold her camera with her elbow, spread a piece of plastic over the chair, and place her kit on it.

"She has cuts all over her body, Sara! Not deep enough to kill out-right, but enough to cause intense pain." Standing up and groaning in the process, D.B. said, "I think we need to talk with the neighbors—call Nick, Greg or Finn or Morgan. This is more than some politician having a pile-up on the interstate. I'd say all this came from a large knife. We'll check but not a kitchen knife, I wouldn't think." He walked to the bed. "We need to turn over every rock in the yard, find out what the neighbors know or heard or saw."

He checked his pants and shirt for blood and removed his gloves. "Let's go talk to neighbors." He reached for his cell phone. "There's no service out here."

Sara handed her phone to him. "Satellite phone—always has service—even to Mongolia." She shrugged. "Benefit of long-distance marriage."

Smiling, he took her phone. "You have to have more than romance to have a good marriage. Who do you want out here? Nick and Greg can find the place, I think." He sighed and left the bedroom. "You and I need help. I'll pull Nick," he chuckled. "Morgan's dad can make sure she has help on the road rage case."

D.B. called the lab and ended up talking to Ecklie, and then gave strict instructions to the deputy standing outside, getting a promise that no one would get into the house until they returned; D.B. added that two additional deputies were on the way before he and Sara proceeded to the neighboring house.

The place was almost a replica of the house where the murdered couple had lived. A dilapidated barn was between the houses; a horse whinnied as they passed.

"Could we check on the horse?" Sara asked.

"Yeah, probably needs to be fed."

Inside the barn, the horse was restless; hay was piled near the door. Sara filled her arms with hay and placed it in a feeding trough. The horse stood quietly while she ran a hand along the horse's neck before leaving the barn.

"To bad he can't talk—might be able to tell us what happened in there," D.B. said.

Sara agreed, but something else was prickling at the edge of her brain, something she could not pull into her consciousness as she walked along a well-beaten path between the two houses.

The neighbor was no longer crying; he and his wife were sitting at a small table with the other deputy. As soon as Sara and D.B. walked in, the deputy got up and pulled another chair to the table.

He said, "I'll be outside. We've been talking," he shook his head.

In a few minutes, they learned Joe and Wanda Newman had lived for nearly thirty years as neighbors to the dead couple.

"Raised our kids together—we had three—two boys and a girl. They had two girls. Played and ran back and forth." Teary eyes looked at Sara as Joe Newman tried to explain the intermingling of two families. His wife placed cups of hot coffee on the table. Silent tears ran down her cheeks.

Sara tried to imagine the isolated houses being a happy playground for children.

"We don't have anything worth stealing," Joe said. "Who would do this to Janice and Tom?"

D.B. patted the arm of the old man. "We're going to try to find out but we need to ask some questions—probably some of the same questions you've been asked. Has anything unusual or different happened recently? When was the last time you talked to your neighbors?"

Wanda Newman pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. "They are dead, aren't they? There's been no ambulance—they must be dead."

Sara reached to comfort the old woman. "I'm so sorry," she whispered as the old lady began to cry again.

D.B. put an arm around Mrs. Newman's shoulders. "They are gone—killed by someone, probably more than one person—and we need your help. Tell us anything you can think of, something you noticed that wasn't quite as it should be. We can find who did this, but we'll need your help."

Several minutes passed before the old man began to talk. For ten minutes the couple put together a narrative of the past few days, injected frequently with a sob or a question that had no answer. They were able to supply information about the two grown daughters and an address for Janice's brother.

"Janice never had jewelry," Wanda added, "There is nothing in the house worth taking! I just can't understand this." She folded her arms and put her head down.

Sara put her hand on the older woman's back, asking, "Mrs. Newman, did you hear or notice anything earlier tonight? Do you remember the last time you saw your neighbors?"

"The horse woke me up—that's when Joe got up and noticed the lights. They always leave a kitchen light on during the night—always—and it wasn't on. We waited for a while, but the horse is old and he's quiet at night. I knew something was wrong so Joe called—got no answer. That's when he went over." Lifting her head and wiping her face, Wanda shook her head. "The horse gets fed every night—between seven and eight."

D.B.'s eyes met Sara's. He said, "Between seven and eight every night." They knew they had established a timeline.

"Do you remember seeing Janice earlier?" Sara asked.

"She was watering her flowers—it was six because I watching the nightly news while I cooked dinner."

Changing the subject, Sara asked, "Do they leave any other lights on—ones you can see?"

"No," the woman shook her head. "Only a nightlight in the bathroom."

A few minutes later, Sara's phone buzzed; she left the house before answering it. While she was talking to Ecklie, D.B. joined her on the small porch and talked quietly with the deputy who entered the house.

"Ecklie says he is sending help," Sara said. "Not Nick—said he was spending 'special' help—his emphasis on special. Dave is on his way."

D.B. wiped his face and looked upward. "If it's Morgan, she'll puke first and cry second. And all Finn wants to do is blood splatter—she'll have enough of that, but not what we need out here." He placed a hand on Sara's shoulder, saying, "Let's get to work. Ecklie's _special_ person can catch up when she gets here."

Sara brought her camera up. "I remember something," she said as she started flipping through her photographs. "Look at this." She showed him a photograph.

He took the camera and studied the small screen. His mouth edged up with a smile. "I'd say a man—an unmarried man—has used this toilet."

Sara grinned. "Took me several years to convince Gil to always put the seat down."

D.B. gave her an affable pat on her back. "Took my wife a few years too. Slow learners but we learn." He took her arm and, chuckling softly, said, "Let's see how much more we can learn before Ecklie's _Special_ gets here."

In the darkness, they walked away from the Newman's house.

Sara said, "Sounds like a diner breakfast to me."

D.B. laughed quietly, "Don't remind me—I wouldn't mind a plate of pancakes about now."

_A/N: Thank you, everyone, for reading! More to come-and yes, the rating will change in a few more chapters!_


	3. Chapter 3

_And here is another chapter! Thanks for reading!_

**How Sweet It is**

**Chapter 3**

As ghastly as the scene of the crime appeared, neither Sara nor D.B. complained as they went to work in the bedroom. Occasionally, they made small talk—sometimes asking a question or comparing thoughts yet continuing to work without a break. Much of the work would be routine and both knew remote murders and robberies were often hard to solve. Was this a robbery gone wrong? Both agreed something else had happened—something that precipitated the hideous murders of an old couple.

D.B. counted eight deep wounds on the man, several could be considered fatal. The wounds were deep stabbing ones. The woman had at least forty cuts but the neck wound caused by the rope cutting into her neck appeared to be the source of most of the blood; more blood had come from her hands as she struggled.

Sara said, "The more she struggled, the tighter the rope pulled."

Lights suddenly flashed across walls.

"I hope that's Dave. I think we've done all we can with the bodies out here," D.B. said as he straightened his back and stretched. "We need to look for a personal reason. Something that would cause an old couple to be attacked and tortured like this."

For a second time, lights swept into the house as another vehicle arrived.

D.B. said, "I'm going to welcome the new arrivals—give them a heads up."

"Okay," Sara replied as he left. She had worked around the old woman's body and gotten to 'her' side of the bed. At the bedside table, she tugged on a broken drawer, finding it filled with old magazines. She flipped through each one and found nothing but well-worn pages. The next drawer revealed items of a more intimate nature; Sara smiled as she moved tubes and lotions around.

"Hey, Sara." Dave Phillips had quietly entered the house, stopping at the doorway. "D.B. said it was a slaughterhouse."

Sara nodded. "Two old people living what appears to be a quite life, neighbors heard nothing until the horse woke them up." Holding several evidence bags in her hand, she said, "I don't think we are going to find anything in this bedroom that's going to find the killers."

With a quick smile, Dave said, "You'll find something—you'll find them if anyone can." He sighed. "We'll get the bodies out, maybe find something."

"Wrap the rope around her neck, would you? It's an odd kind of knot." The two stood over the woman's body and studied the tied rope. Sara grunted, "You know, I just realized—that's a Spanish bowline—both loops are around her neck." She looked at Dave. "Do you know anything about boat rigging?"

"No—I've been on a boat but not enough to know what kind of knots are tied." Again, he gave a quick smile. "You astound me with your knowledge. And I'll protect the rope until you get to the lab."

"Thanks."

Dave's assistant and Jim Brass arrived at the door.

"Wow! D.B.'s right. What happened in here?" Brass asked the question, not expecting an answer. He shook his head and flipped a small notebook open. "Janice and Joe Sullivan—lived in this house for 42 years. He worked in Pahrump for thirty something years until he retired. Never had so much as a parking ticket. Two daughters live out of state, and quick search found Janice's brother in Henderson." Making an audible sigh, he said, "I'm going to see the neighbors."

D.B. had followed Brass and suddenly the hallway and bedroom seemed to be filled with four people.

Sara said, "I'll start in the bathroom while you guys…"

The three men worked on removal of the two bodies—always a difficult process made even more complicated while trying to preserve evidence in a small room. Sara could hear them as she knelt over the pile of towels, carefully bagging each one. A faint odor of bleach, a spray bottle, and a sink recently cleaned told her any DNA evidence was likely compromised. Even the towels smelled of recent bleach. In the midst of using a pipe wrench on the sink trap that had not been removed in decades, she heard D.B.'s voice.

His deep chuckle resonated before he said, "Well, this is a surprise!"

Sara heard Dave—his words muffled because she had half of her body under the sink trying to loosen the trap, but in a few seconds, another voice, muted, yet familiar, brought her head up. The pipe popped off. The sudden repositioning caused her to lose her balance; her butt hit the floor, her feet flew out in opposing directions. Her shoulder met the edge of the toilet, but she kept the u-shaped trap upright in her hand as she made a surprised yelp.

Standing in the door of the bathroom was her husband.

Grinning, Gil Grissom stretched his gloved hand out. "It appears you need a hand, dear." He stepped into the small bathroom as the body of Janice Sullivan was carried out.

Sara stammered and fumbled as she tried to grasp the unexpected, finally saying, "What are you doing here? Are you Ecklie's special?"

Casually, he took the drain pipe from her and helped her to her feet. "I must be—anything to get to spend time with you. Remember that consulting contract I signed last summer when I worked a few days with Nick?" Sara nodded. "Well, it's been activated tonight." Reaching for a small container, he poured the pink liquid into it. "Ecklie called saying the lab was backed up and you were out here with D.B. who needed to be in the lab and would I be willing to work with my wife on a double murder." He grinned. "And how could I say no?"

Quickly, Sara smiled; the look on her pleased face revealed her thoughts.

Grissom said, "Where do I start? And I brought food." When her eyes formed a question, he continued, "You two have been out here for half the night—sun will be up shortly."

For some reason, Sara could not stop smiling. Even when D.B. stuck his head in the doorway, she stood there like a love-struck fifth grader while he and Grissom talked.

"I'm not going back—not yet," D.B. said. "Ecklie can sit in his office and dictate orders, but my phone doesn't have good reception out here." He grinned, saying to Sara, "And you can leave your phone out in the truck!"

When food was mentioned, D.B. headed outside, waving for Sara to follow. "We can catch our new arrival up on what we've found—what we've not found."

Grissom had enough food—muffins, donuts, apples, energy bars, coffee in a thermos, bottles of orange juice—for a small army. The deputies joined them as food was brought out and the group talked about the double murders and the investigative process as the sun began to lighten the sky. Bellies filled, the deputies and Detective Brass huddled to compare notes and map out a direction for interviewing other neighbors and contacting the victims' daughters.

D.B. took an apple and leaned against the vehicle. "Now, that I've got you two together," he chuckled, "is it true what I hear about you?"

Sara and Grissom looked puzzled; she asked, "What?"

Chewing a bite of apple for several seconds, D.B. said, "People tell me that you two kept your relationship a secret for years—from everyone! I couldn't believe it, but tonight, I can see how it could be true." He laughed, unabashed at the couple's obvious discomfort. "Ahh—come on Sara—act like you're happy to see the man!" He teased, "Why don't you kiss him?"

Sara giggled and leaned over, quickly pressing her lips to her husband's cheek. "I think I've been in shock from the moment he walked in—last person I expected to see!"

Placing his arm around her shoulders, Grissom turned and kissed Sara—fully on her mouth. "I love this woman, D.B.! She's my heart—I would not have come out here for anyone else." He turned toward D.B, "and we have a lot of work to do. Inside or out—I'll take the perimeter."

D.B. raked a hand through his hair, looking around and seeing the deputies in conversation with Brass. He said, "I should take what we've collected to the lab—get a hurry-up coroner's report—leave you two out here." He waved toward the house. "Search everything—got to be something in the house and something out here that will give us some idea of where these guys wanted—came from. Broke the glass and unlocked the door, but where did they come from—literally. How did they get here?"

Grissom and Sara looked around the sparsely covered area, dry and dusty from the long drought. "Unless they drove up in a tank, we are not going to get much out of this dust," Grissom said, and then gave a quick smile, "but we will look."

They returned to the bedroom and hauled bags and envelopes of evidence to D.B.'s vehicle. As he drove away, Sara and Grissom went to work, searching the bedroom for anything that might provide a clue.

Ten minutes later, standing in the doorway of the bloodied bedroom, Brass said, "Well, if this doesn't bring back memories of another time, another place."

Quietly, Sara laughed as she opened a small box on the dresser. "It does, doesn't it." She found several pieces of cheap jewelry, tangled chains, a few earrings, but nothing of value and none of it disturbed.

"I'm a highly paid consultant," Grissom announced, a hint of mocking in his voice. "Not a salaried employee." He held up two paperback books he had retrieved from behind a bedside table. "And because I'm a consultant, maybe I've found a clue."

He opened the larger of the two books. Pages were cut away and a small pistol fit into the space. The second smaller book had a similar space cut out of its pages but held a small box. Sara and Brass moved closer.

"Both were stuck behind and under the table. Definitely hidden—a secret place judging by the dust," he said. Carefully, he lifted the top of the box. Inside was a key, recognizable for what it opened. All three had seen this type of key.

Jim Brass said, "Safety deposit box key."

_A/N: And thanks for reading-many of you knew who Ecklie's special would be! And why not? _


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Rating will change for Chapter 5. Enjoy!_

**How Sweet It is**

**Chapter 4**

Jim Brass took the key and left. Sara and Grissom began a thorough search after fingerprinting the back of the bedside table, which matched those D.B. had taken from Joe Sullivan.

"The wife did not know the gun or key was there," Grissom said. "And this table—it hasn't been moved in years." He gave it a push with his foot; when it did not budge, he tried with both hands to move it.

"Take out the drawers," Sara suggested.

One drawer slid out easily—coins, socks, empty medicine bottles, a collection of screws, bolts, and nails that probably came out of Joe Sullivan's pockets. The next two were heavy. One was filled with old paperback books; the other with boxes of old bank checks and receipts. Grissom dumped the contents onto the stripped bed causing a cascade papers and dust. A rectangle piece of metal, large enough to cover the bottom of the drawer, fell out. Looking at each other in surprise, he picked it up.

"It's a slim box," Grissom said. He held out his hand and Sara placed a multi-tool in his hand.

In a few minutes, he had the box open.

"Let's move to the table." Grissom's eyes lit up with surprise as he flipped through several pieces of paper.

"What are these?" Sara asked as he spread the papers on the dining room table.

"Bearer bonds," Grissom said. "At one time these were the currency of anyone who wanted to keep the IRS from knowing their financial standing—tax evasion, money laundering. You could carry them around the world like currency. No names appear on the bond so whoever holds it can receive its value. Most of these were issued before the 1980s." He lifted one page out of the box. "These are old—and worth lots of money."

Sara's eyes grew wide. "Are they genuine? Everything in this house is old—the woman's nightgowns are practically rags! And they have these bonds hidden in the bedside table?"

Grissom continued counting. "Fourteen. Looks like Mr. Sullivan had wealth—unshared wealth from the looks of things."

"Do you think he had these in a safe deposit box until recently?"

He turned the flat metal box over. "It did not open easily. Made in Germany—interesting." His fingers traced the edges of the box where a fine line of rust had formed. "I don't think this has been opened in a long time."

"If he had these in the house, he might have had money," Sara mused, holding one up to the morning sun streaming in the window. She could see an elaborate watermark on the paper, underneath the intricate engraving.

"Tell me everything we know—what are your thoughts?"

Taking a seat across the table, Sara smiled, raised her hand and counted with her fingers. "One—two people killed, tortured the wife, first I think, then the husband, murdered probably by two people, at least one man. Two—the couple lived simply, nothing appears disturbed except the bedroom. Three—no obvious evidence except for the rope. No weapon, no bloody tracks." A thought in her brain suddenly snapped to another one. "And four—there are no trash cans in the bathroom or bedroom! A woman this tidy would have trash cans!"

She got up and in five long strides she was looking for trash cans; found none in either room and returned to the table where Grissom had remained seated. She carried a basket. "She lined the cans with plastic bags—this one was in the second bedroom—with several bags in the bottom so there is always one ready to use. Our killers take the plastic bags and," she paused as a grin spread across her face.

Grissom waited. When she said nothing, he asked "Where are the footprints?"

"Ahhh—plastic bags over their shoes!" She stretched out her leg. "Like our shoe covers! But what does that tell us?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"And now we've found these bonds, we have the likelihood of robbery." She held up five fingers.

Grissom carefully placed the bonds back in the metal box, saying "Sun's up; let's walk around. Get the smell of blood out of our nose."

The Newman's house had lights shining from every window, Sara noticed. "What will happen to them?" She asked.

Grissom shook his head. "Not only have their neighbors been killed, they didn't know the truth about them." Using a flashlight he began searching the ground. "This is hard-packed dirt—nothing shows up."

They separated, walking in opposite directions. On their second trip around the house, making a broader circle, one of the deputies arrived, saying, "Three nights ago, one of the neighbors along the driveway saw a dark-colored car between his driveway and the one that comes down here. He thought it was someone visiting the Newman's or the Sullivan's. New looking car, maybe didn't want to mess it up because of the low growing scrub and ruts. Didn't pay much attention other than it was a dark, new model."

"Have you looked around the area?" Sara asked.

"We can't really pinpoint where a car stopped. It's just fine dust out here, way the wind blows, it's hard to tell."

All three looked toward the Newman's house when a door slammed. Mrs. Newman was coming in their direction carefully balancing three mugs in her hands. Her husband was behind her but he turned in the direction of the barn. Glancing at each other, they walked to meet her. After a few polite remarks and accepting the hot milky tea, Grissom and the deputy followed her husband to the barn.

"Again, thanks for the tea," Sara said. "Are you going to be okay?"

Wanda Newman wrapped her arms together. "Will you find who did this? It's just so awful. I—I feel like I need to help Janice. Did they tear up her house? I—I could clean it up before the girls get here."

"Mrs. Newman, you don't want to go into the house right now. It's—it is not torn up, but you don't want to see it."

"Did she suffer? Janice?"

Sara did not want to lie, but the truth would be so hurtful to this woman. "She—she probably died before her husband." Sara had no idea if this was right.

Wanda Newman glanced at the barn where the three men were talking. She said, "Janice was a good person, but her Joe was a mean man. He didn't hurt her or anything like that. He was selfish."

Asking "What do you mean?" Sara wanted the woman to keep talking, even as Grissom made his way back to them.

"Joe never let her buy anything. He was the same way with the girls. They left home as soon as they could." She twisted her hands together as tears formed in her eyes. "Oh, it didn't matter when they were young and moved out here. The kids played and had fun, but pretty soon, I knew Janice had to stretch every dime she got." She stopped talking when Grissom arrived.

"Go ahead, Mrs. Newman. He needs to hear about the Sullivan's, too," Sara encouraged.

The older woman took a long minute to study Grissom before continuing. "I don't want to talk bad about the dead—and Joe was our neighbor—but Janice deserved better. Joe would go off two or three times a year for a week or so." Her hands twisted continually. "He claimed he was going to visit an old relative—but he didn't. He'd go into Vegas and gamble—where he got the money, I don't know. But my sister works in one of the casino hotels—saw him there one time and spoke to him. He acted like he didn't know who she was! He had sat at my table dozens of times when my sister visited!"

Tears streamed down her face. "After that, my sister found out he paid women to come to his room, found out he would gamble during the day and have women come in at night—one of those expensive rooms, too. Spending money Janice never knew he had! I kept my mouth shut—but I'll bet he brought this to their house!" Anger edged her voice.

Sara wanted to ask how the sister got her information, but knew that could come later. Sara asked, "When was the last time he was gone—recently?"

Wiping her face, she said "He was gone for a week about two weeks ago. Left on Thursday and came back on Tuesday. Came back here acting like he had visited an old uncle. But I knew better," she paused, glanced at Sara before she continued, "A woman can tell, you know—when a man isn't faithful—if she wants to know. Janice did not—he never left the car for her." Furiously biting her words, she said, "Janice deserved better." Then her tears flowed down her cheeks.

"Did you ever tell your husband? Or anyone else about his trips to Vegas?" Sara asked.

"No—no, only my sister knows about it. My Joe would not have believed it. Those two men were always going on and on about not having money to buy this or that—so I know my Joe never knew about Joe Sully—that's what we called him—having a lot of money. One time I was joking around and mentioned gambling money and Joe Sully got upset—defensive almost—but I think he knew. He wasn't stupid—he knew my sister had told me."

"Can you tell me where your sister works?" Sara asked, afraid she would not get an answer, or get an answer that would not further their investigation.

"She's worked at two places—now she's at the Bellagio—the one with the fountains. Been there for seven years." Wanda Newman pulled her shoulders back and stood straighter. "She's smart—works in accounting, knows a lot about computers and all that."

Sara asked for a name and Wanda was proud to give it. "Rhonda Marks—she has a good job—when you meet her, she'll confirm what I've said. I'll call her later. She's my baby sister, you see. Got a chance to go to college and be a real professional."

Grissom asked, "I'm sure you've been asked before—do you remember seeing anyone or hearing anything? Not just last night but maybe two-three nights ago?"

She shook her head, unable to add anything else. She had heard nothing, seen nothing. "My Joe is almost deaf—won't admit it, but he can't hear it thunder."

Grissom and Sara handed empty cups back to Wanda. Sara said, "Thank you—thank you for helping us."

With teary eyes, Wanda nodded and returned to her house.

As Grissom and Sara walked around the house again, he told her what Joe Newman talked about, "Upset that the barn was a mess, upset about his neighbors and not knowing anything. Said he didn't hear anything before his wife woke him up—and yes, she's right. He can't hear a normal conversation!"

They kept walking, widening the perimeter, finding nothing but more dusty dirt. Two of the deputies joined their search. After an hour, Sara called a halt. They had found nothing, not even trash. Two of the deputies would stay at the house as a safeguard until others arrived.

She and Grissom returned to the house.

"We have new evidence," Grissom said, "the bonds and Wanda telling us about Joe Sullivan's trips to Vegas—there was money—or a reason for a robbery." Grissom raked his hand across his face when Sara agreed. "And the key—Brass will find out what it opens. And we have Wanda's sister."

"Wanda's sister may be a cocktail waitress," Sara said with a sigh.

Grissom chuckled. "No, big sister is proud of her baby sister."

"Wanda said neighbor Joe was mean to Janice—not physically, but didn't give her much money. So there's more to that story," Sara said. "And Janice has a brother. Maybe something from him."

Grissom picked up the bonds. "Let's go—we can return. These bonds may be important and talking to the sister may help. And maybe Brass and D.B. have contacted Janice's brother."

"And maybe the safe deposit key opened a box that revealed our killers—complete with names and addresses."

They gathered all the evidence bags, their equipment and sealed windows and doors with yellow crime scene tape. Grissom opened the vehicle door for Sara.

"Thanks, dear," Sara whispered. She smiled. "I enjoyed this—you being here—as bad as it is."

"I'm glad I could help. It's—its—I enjoy working with you." Briefly, his hand rested on her leg before he closed the door.

_A/N: Thanks for reading! We appreciate hearing from you with a review/comment-and rating will change with next chapter._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** _Here's the reason for ratings change-thanks for reading!_

Chapter** 5**

Sara drifted into a light sleep on the drive back into Vegas with Grissom's hand holding hers; softly playing music let her dream of another world. She woke as he pulled into the garage. For four hours, the gathered evidence, the preliminary coroner's reports, testing on the rope, interviews from neighbors, maps of the area, and contacting experts on bearer bonds consumed every minute. Brass had someone attempting to track the key but there was some mix-up with the number engraved on it. He had contacted Janice Sullivan's brother who was traveling in Canada and gotten his promise to arrive in Vegas as soon as possible. And everyone—including the victims—were being thoroughly checked.

The coroner's report found Joe Sullivan died from any one of six deep wounds probably made by a serrated blade; he had several broken ribs in addition to the broken femur, the nose was nearly cut off, and a blow to the right eye had caused a bloody gash. Mrs. Sullivan's report would take longer.

Rhonda Marks, as her sister had promised, was a high-ranking accountant at the Bellagio and when contacted by Brass, she confirmed everything Wanda Newman had told them—and more. Joe Sullivan had lost nearly twenty thousand dollars during his most recent visit to the Bellagio—and paid his bill with American Express travelers checks. Before he asked, she said video tapes would be available for the dates of Sullivan's last visit.

"Who uses travelers checks now?" Sara asked as she, Grissom, and Jim Brass sat around a table in the break room.

Brass said, "People who do not want to be traced." He yawned. "I think I've been awake for twenty-something hours. It never stops, but I've got to get some sleep."

Grissom agreed. He looked at Sara who was turning pages in the growing file. "What are you thinking?" He asked.

Her tired eyes lifted. "Something keeps niggling—pricking at my mind. Joe Sullivan paid the casino with traveler's checks from 1999. Maybe the travelers checks were in the safe deposit box." She sighed and put her head down on her folded arms. "I'm so tired I can't think."

"Let's go home—sleep a few hours," her husband suggested.

Before she could comment, Brass chuckled, saying "Sounds like a plan." He pushed up from his chair, gave a wave in their direction, and left.

Sara did not move for a moment but gazed at her husband with a barely suppressed longing that made Grissom want to pull her into his arms. He stood, reached out, and lightly touched her arm. Lifting his chin, a smile of expectation played at the corners of his mouth.

Twenty minutes later, Sara was standing in the shower at home while her husband was walking the dog. Before stepping into the shower, she had turned on the water to fill their huge square tub. Soaking for a while, she thought, would restore her energy, clear her mind, and give Grissom time to return and shower. She smiled as she saturated her hair with citrus-scented shampoo; it had been years since her supervisor had suggested lemons for the lingering odor of decomp.

She was out of the shower in less than ten minutes, sliding into the filled tub, flipping the air jets to gentle bubbling, and gradually relaxing as hot water flowed over and around her body. The tub had been an extravagant extra when she and Grissom had purchased the condo, one they had not regretted. She adjusted her bath pillow and let her body lift and float for several minutes. The water worked its magic on her tired muscles, but her brain continued to dwell on Joe and Janice Sullivan. Her mind played back to the crime scene, the gruesome murders, the isolated house, the secrets of Joe, and something kept tickling at the edge of her thoughts.

The breakthrough had yet to be found, she thought. All investigations reached a point that would lead to a solution—or hit a wall. She did not want the murders of the Sullivan's to hit the wall, to become a cold case. She thought about the Newman's—living as close friends and neighbors with a man who was not who he pretended to be. The motive for the murders had to be money, but as yet there was no invisible finger pointing in a specific direction.

Backed up by D.B., Brass, and her husband, she did not believe the Newman's had any connection with the crime. The dazed look in their eyes could not be faked yet if this had been a robbery, the perpetrators must be someone close to the couple to know about the money.

Sara was so deep in thought, she did not realize Grissom had returned until she felt his lips pressed against her forehead causing her to jerk with surprise.

"You are a million miles away, dear," he said with a laugh as he pulled his shirt off.

She flicked water at him. "No, only to the Sullivan's place. Trying to figure out what happened—how it happened."

"Put it away for now—and make room!" As she had done, he stepped into the shower for a few minutes before climbing into the tub.

Sara slid to the center to make room even though the tub was large enough for both to sit side-by-side. But instead of sliding beside her, Grissom stepped in and sat down behind Sara.

"Much better," he said as he wrapped arms and legs around her.

Sara did not have to see his face to know he was smiling. She could feel the apprehension and anxiety in her brain change in some indefinable way; she found herself running her palm along her husband's thigh. At the same time, Grissom drew his slightly rough fingertip slowly along a line from her ear to the center of her chest. His lips pressed into her hair above her ear. She felt the rush of heated consciousness swirl through her body giving her a sense of calmness and serenity. Her body molded to his.

Gently, he threaded his fingers through her hair and turned her face to his. "I like this much better," he whispered as she came to rest against him, cradled in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder.

As warm water bubbled gently around them, Sara lifted her face for his kiss. Grissom's mouth came to hers; his tongue sliding along the edge of her lower lip, seeking admittance. His hand moved from her shoulder, along her arm to her breast.

She felt his growing erection beneath her thigh and moved her leg to open herself. His hand moved between her legs and when his thumb grazed her clitoris, she made a quiet gasp as she pressed her fingers into his shoulder. Instinctive reflex caused her muscles to clinch with pleasure as his fingers found the warm dampness inside her body. His mouth was on hers as his fingers parted her soft folds seeking out the tiny bud of desire.

"Here or bed."

Sara was already breathless, trembling with anticipation. Her body responded by twisting against his probing hand. He slid one finger gently into her throbbing warmth. Her reaction to his stimulation came as naturally, as gently as a breeze across a beach.

"Here," her words muffled against his neck, wanting more of him as he moved. "No," she laughed, "bed" as her hips lifted. "I don't care…"

The next few minutes were a haze of tender, stroking caresses and kisses that somehow intertwined legs and arms in perfect alignment. His fingers worked magic in the hot, damp area between her legs. Her kisses stirred and aroused her husband's obvious desire. Grissom's head dipped below the water; his mouth took her right nipple while his fingers circled the left. It lasted only a few seconds. When his face surfaced, Sara said, "Bed! Now!"

Quickly, with a sweeping whisk of motion, they were out of the tub; Grissom managed to turn off the tub's jets as they ran to the bed leaving a trail of water behind them. In bed, they started over—kissing, touching, lips, tongues, soft skin, touching until each was beyond thought, beyond speech.

The softest of whispers met Grissom's ears. "Gil, Gil, Gil," his wife sang softly as his fingers played in her familiar private core, soft, welcoming. He guided his erection lightly against her thigh, against her folds, crushing himself against her swollen bud. His hands closed around her bare butt, urging her against his thighs, and as he lifted her, he bent his head and sipped one nipple carefully between his teeth.

Sara's reaction was instinctive—she arched herself so that he could take more of her completely into his mouth. The movement caused her legs to open completely to his touch. Her hand closed around his erection; her fingertip glided across its broad tip, finding a bead of moisture. When Grissom groaned, she stroked him again and again as he made a deep growl in response.

Slowly, he moved on top of her, settling himself between her legs, reaching around to place one of her legs on his lower back. With gentle strokes, almost teasing, he entered her. Any tension remaining vanished as the marvelous spiral of excitement condensed within Sara and turned her into a wild, writhing body of energy.

He moved in rhythm, possessing Sara's body as she trembled in response. From the first time they had physically loved each other he had known he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything else on earth. When her muscles drew taut, when her head tipped back, as she began to convulse and clutch his shoulders so passionately that her fingernails left small marks on his skin, only then did Grissom let his own climax break.

Sara came slowly awake as she realized the sound she was hearing was her telephone vibrating against the top of the bedside table. Carefully, she slipped her arm from underneath her husband's head, extended her arm and picked up the phone.

There was no "hello" as Jim Brass said: "You'd better come in. Janice Sullivan's brother is sitting here and says he knows who killed them."

_A/N: Thank you to those who read and review! We'd apreciate hearing from all of you- Thanks! It seems GSR fans are disappearing from fanfiction-if you are out there and reading, let us know!_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Here's another chapter-before the long holiday weekend for Thanksgiving! Enjoy!_

**How Sweet It Is**

**Chapter 6**

Sara and Grissom ignored speed limits getting to the department and nearly collided with a dozen people, old friends greeting him, stopping to shake his hand, as they hurried inside the building. And then they could not find Brass or D.B. in the interview rooms or in their offices—every room was being used by someone else. In the hall they ran into Nick who was working another case.

"In the break room—waiting for you two!" he said after Sara asked if he had seen Brass.

The two men were sitting with an older man, thin and wiry, who was eating a large sandwich. When Sara and Grissom entered the room, the old man was the first to stand, wiping his hands on a paper napkin before extending one to Sara.

"I'm Harry Jordan—Janice's brother," he said.

Taking his hand, Sara looked up at a giant, easily standing eight inches taller than she. Her hand almost disappeared in his hand. She had a feeling he was wearing his best white shirt and jeans even if the shirt collar was frayed.

After introductions and re-arranging chairs, Jim Brass said, "We found the right bank and then Mr. Jordan got here. I thought it probably best if we could start at the beginning," He nodded at Mr. Jordan. "Sara is the lead investigator in the murders of your sister and brother-in-law," he explained.

"Should I start over," Harry Jordan asked.

As if given a cue, four heads nodded.

Mr. Jordan settled into his chair, actually making himself shorter in the way very tall people manage to do and wrapped the remains of his sandwich in its paper wrapper. Surprising to Sara, he turned to face her, saying "It was the money."

Said asked, "Could you clarify—explain a little more?"

"Joe and his brother made money during Vietnam; before that they were over in Germany. His brother's been dead for years so Joe got it all."

Confusion caused Sara to frown but she encouraged him by saying "Go on, please." She noticed Jim Brass had dropped his head, hiding a smile.

"Joe and his brother got over there in the early sixties and by the time things were going full-blast, they were into black market everything—guns, shoes, parts, even food—and I'm sure drugs were in the mix. And nobody ever caught them. Joe was a greedy son-of-a-bitch and clever. He invested in the right places and it's been growing ever since."

"So you're saying the Sullivan's were wealthy?"

Mr. Jordan shook his head. "Not the family—not Janice, not their girls. Janice didn't know a thing about the money."

Sara asked, "Would he have kept his fortune a secret from his own wife? From his children?"

"My sister was deceived—mislead—betrayed by her husband. She was killed because he stashed away a fortune." Bitterness edged the man's voice.

"And he kept money at home?"

"Sometimes," replied Janice's brother. Suddenly, revulsion, bitterness, and hatred spilled over inside the man. "Joe Sullivan was a monster. He used my sister—he worked her until her spirit was gone, until she no longer thought of herself or for herself!" His fist came down with a force that shook the table. Just as quickly, he seemed to recover. "Sorry, beg your pardon," he said.

"It's okay," Sara said. She reached out, flattening her hand on the table. Harry Jordan tried to smile.

D.B. and Brass had started to stand but just as quickly sat back down when Jordan made a fast apology.

"He pretended to be like everyone else—complained about the price of everything, didn't help his own daughters with a dime! Never gave them anything but a name—he had all that money and wouldn't even help the girls go to college!" He made a sad shrug. "And now he's dead—murdered for that pile of gold he kept. And my sister—he killed her as sure as I'm sitting here!"

"Mr. Jordan, do you know who might have done this? Who would know about the money?"

Faded blue eyes met Sara's. "His mistress."

His quiet comment caused the three men to stir. Sara kept her eyes on Jordan.

She asked, "Your brother-in-law had a mistress?"

Harry Jordan nodded. "Twenty-five years ago he met a woman on one of his 'trips'—moved her to Vegas to a nice house. Has a son with her, too." Angry bitterness edged his voice again. "He'd give her money every few months—more money than he gave Janice in a lifetime—paid for the boy to go to college back east." Tears formed in his eyes. "Ten-twelve years ago, he was giving her fifty thousand at least, but would not give Janice enough to take a bus trip to see her daughter!" He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

"Mr. Jordan, how do you know all of this?" Sara asked the question as gently as possible.

Jordan drummed his fingers on the table and looked at the ceiling. "I knew a long time ago that Joe Sullivan was not who he appeared to be—just something about him. But Janice is my only sister—she could not find fault with him and then the girls came along. He moved them out on that place he called a farm." He scraped a frail, worn hand across his face. "I had a wife, a son—we'd see each other a few times a year—it got where I couldn't stand to be in the room with him. One day I saw him coming out of one of the malls with a bunch of packages—and laughing with this young blonde woman. I held back—followed them to a nice neighborhood, nice house. A kid—a boy—comes running out of the house. He was the image of Joe! They go inside and I got to thinking." He paused a minute, seeming to finally catch his breath before he continued.

"I'm not proud of what I did and I never told anyone, but I hired a private investigator. Paid him a lot of money but I got what I wanted—that's how I know. And that money—the mistress—that's what killed Janice."

For the first time since sitting down, Sara looked away from Harry Jordan's face. "What did they say at the bank?" She asked.

Jim Brass said, "Found several accounts, two safety deposit boxes we can open today. One account has less than six hundred dollars—joint account with Janice. Another one has," he glanced at Harry Jordan, "has over two hundred thousand in it."

D.B. added, "We're looking for other accounts." He turned a paper so Sara could see a list of names. "Mr. Jordan is right—Joe was not who he appeared to be. Joseph Sullivan and Joseph A. Sullivan and J.A. Sullivan have popped up with accounts in six different banks and credit unions in Vegas. And we're still looking."

"Blood money," muttered Harry Jordan.

Silence filled the room. Sara looked at the three other men around the table, trying to decide where to go with all they had learned. Grissom raised one finger before asking, "One question for now. We know Joe had a lot of money and probably had some of it at home the night he was murdered. But who would have known? Beside you.

Harry Jordan looked at him. "I don't know—other than the mistress."

Sara recovered. "Her name—do you know her name?"

"Sure—sure," he reached into his pocket and brought out a crushed scrap of paper. "I wrote it down years ago. And her address." He handed it to Sara. "Can I ask a question?" When Sara nodded, he asked "Will his girls get the money?"

In the background, Sara heard Brass clear his throat. He said, "There isn't anyone designated on the accounts we've found—so as his daughters, they should get the money-maybe there is a will."

Harry Jordan nodded his head; a faint smile crept across his face for the first time. "Good, good. They are good girls—women. Got little families of their own—it'll be put to good use."

For thirty minutes, the elderly man continued to be questioned but he provided no other information. His story stayed the same. Finally, Brass told him he could go.

"But if you think of anything else, even if you don't think it's important, call us. And don't leave the area without letting us know," Brass said.

They watched the tall man stretch as he rose from his chair; he hesitated at the door. "You'll let me know—who did this?"

D.B. walked with Harry Jordan to the front door. Brass, Grissom, and Sara remained in the break room.

Grissom said to Jim, "Do you think he could have been involved?"

Brass replied, "We checked him out before he got here—nothing in thirty years." He shook his head, saying "but neither did Joe Sullivan." He tapped his pen on the table. "He didn't kill them. I don't think he knows who did. He wants to find out who killed his sister."

"He had no love for his brother-in-law," Grissom said. "But we do have a mistress."

"And a motive—money," Sara said. "It's a breakthrough—maybe. So, what do you think?"

D.B. returned and answered, "I don't think Mr. Jordan killed anyone. Said his wife and son had been killed in a car accident when the boy was nineteen. He travels around in a motor home which he left in Calgary to fly here." He placed required legal forms on the table to open the safe deposit boxes and slid them toward Sara. "These came from the judge, so you can get into those boxes."

Grissom said, "If money is motive, we should look for the killers to be someone close to the Sullivan's. The mistress, someone who worked with him.

"Or someone who saw him at the casino—if he could lose a large amount of money, someone might think he had a lot of money at home. And if Mr. Jordan is right, his sister had no idea why they were being tortured." Sara said as she checked her notes.

Brass made a loud sigh. "Everyone is so backed up. Gil, are you going to stay with us for a while?" He chuckled. "Even a highly paid consultant can open a safe deposit box."

They talked through a dozen scenarios, removing the neighbors and Jordan from possible suspects, adding possibilities and discounting most of those. The daughters, the mistress, the son, other neighbors, people at the casino—their list kept growing. Brass decided he would visit the mistress.

As Jim Brass left, D.B., Grissom, and Sara were optimistic; money, a mistress, and a son provided leads that might point in the right direction.

Sara and Grissom headed to the bank and in fifteen minutes were opening a long slender metal box. On top was a deed to the farm, next was an envelope containing several photographs of a boy, and then Sara unfolded a piece of paper. Nestled against the fold was a block of four old stamps.

She looked up at Grissom. "Are these worth a lot?"

The four stamps were white and pale blue, five cent stamps with 'Hawaiian Postage' along the top.

Grissom said. "Missionary stamps—valuable but I have no idea."

Under the papers, money—cash—was stacked as tightly as pages in a book. Almost at the same time, Sara and Grissom made soft whistles.

Grissom lifted an inch of bills from the box. "Now we know where he got his cash." He showed Sara twenties, fifties, and hundreds.

Sara refolded the paper. "None of this points in any direction, does it?"

Grissom sighed and replaced the money. "Let's find out when Joe was in the bank—maybe someone remembers him."

A/N: _Thanks for reading-you know a little more, but no solution in sight! More to come!_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thanks for reading! Enjoy!_

**How Sweet It Is**

**Chapter 7**

Four days before Joe Sullivan had been murdered, he had visited the bank. His name was written in the log for the safe deposit room and one of the bank tellers remembered Joe coming to her window.

"He wanted newer bills—nearly ten thousand dollars," the woman said.

It wasn't uncommon, the bank manager explained to the two investigators. "People come in with money they've tucked back, won at the casinos years ago, and want to give a grandchild a gift—things like that—and want new bills."

They were given access to the past ten years of Joe Sullivan's financial activities with the bank; his wife had not written more than fifty checks in ten years. Twice a year, Sullivan had withdrawn cash amounts totaling twenty thousand dollars.

"Where did all the cash come from?" Sara asked. The bank manager had estimated the safe deposit box held nearly half a million dollars.

Grissom grinned, "I am not into money laundering—or avoiding paying taxes. And I don't have a mistress." He winked, leaned over and whispered in her ear, saying "But I do enjoy working with my wife!"

Sara and Grissom questioned the teller again asking for anything else she remembered.

The teller was a young woman who had a good memory. "I do remember this—Mr. Sullivan had an old leather bag—like a briefcase. He put the money inside." She hesitated a moment. "I'm almost sure he had more money in the bag. He—he had what looked like a checkbook in his hand—I can't be sure, but he had some kind of small book with him."

A second bank, listed as another one where Joe Sullivan had an account, was around the corner. Given the court order, a bank officer took them to the vault and showed them the register—Sullivan had been there four days before his death. It took ten minutes to open a second safe deposit box.

When the box was opened, Sara, Grissom and the bank manager were disappointed—the box was empty. No one at the bank could remember Sullivan coming in and checking times on the register, there had been four visitors during the thirty minutes around his visit.

As they drove back to the lab, Grissom asked, "Did you see a leather briefcase at the house?"

"No, nothing like that. But we didn't search the second bedroom that well."

She reached for her phone; Brass had messaged he would meet them with news about the mistress in an hour.

Television trucks and vans surrounded the front of the police department so Grissom maneuvered through slowed traffic to the back of the building.

"What is going on?" He grumbled. "I know it's not our case."

"Thank goodness."

"It's the politicians," Brass explained. When Sara and Grissom looked at him with confusion, he explained, "Pile-up on the interstate—involving a local and two visiting politicians. Their motorcade collided with six other cars." He shook his head. "It's a mess—no one is dead but everyone is passing blame." He sat down behind his desk and leaned back in the chair he had vacated hours earlier. "Hope you learned more from the bank than I learned from the mistress."

Sara's face fell; Grissom groaned. He said, "We found a lot of money. One teller remembered Sullivan and that he carried an old leather briefcase."

"Please tell us you learned more than we did," Sara pleaded. "This man's an enigma!"

Brass chuckled. "The mistress—Cindy Sims—is fifty-six years old with a twenty-seven year old son who lives in North Carolina. She has known Joe Sullivan for twenty-eight years and he has 'provided' for her and her son by paying her," he pulled out a small notebook, "sixty thousand dollars this year to be his official accountant."

Sara choked.

"Oh, she's his mistress—or was! Very distraught to learn of his death! And she's a real certified public accountant. After her initial shock at hearing about his death, she opened up his account and old Joe was a multi-millionaire. Stocks, mutual funds, bonds—investments all over the world." He shook his head, "and kept most of it for himself!" He pulled several pages from his pocket and passed them to Sara. "Copy of his will—divided equally between his daughters and the boy. I don't understand this man—but I don't guess I have too—it's his killers we are looking for."

For more than an hour, the three talked, finding no real direction. Two techs were watching tapes from the casino trying to follow Joe Sullivan's movements. The daughters were arriving in a few hours, but all agreed it was unlikely they knew anything.

"There has to be something—we need to look for that brown brief case," Sara said. "And anyone that might have known about the cash."

"There was a bunch of junk in that second bedroom. Why don't I drive back out there and look for it?" Grissom suggested.

Brass said, "We've eliminated the neighbors, the daughters, the son, the mistress, the wife's brother—only one left is the horse!" He smiled at his joke.

Sara's head snapped up. "There's something about that horse! I can't put my finger on it, but something has been bothering me about the horse." She stood. "Come along, dear—I'll drive."

Brass gave a mock salute to Grissom. "Mr. Ed may talk to her!"

Grissom left the room, smiling, as Jim Brass reached for another case folder, snorting with laughter at his second joke in as many minutes.

As Sara drove, her husband watched her, amazed and proud of his wife. Truth told, smarter than any of them—including himself; her mind worked in novel ways, putting combinations together, seeing the unexpected, and finding solutions in unconventional ways. He reached for her hand.

"You know you are the best thing in my life," he said softly.

Sara did not take her eyes off the road ahead as she smiled. Her fingers threaded with his. "You're pretty special to me," she said, a light teasing in her voice, and leaned toward him.

Grissom met her cheek and kissed her. "What's bothering you about the horse?" His thumb stroked the palm of her hand. "All the money, no suspects, and you are thinking about the horse."

She told him about feeding the horse when she and D.B. were at the scene. "I didn't think anything about it, just pitched an armful of hay into the stall but later—something bothered me and now I think it was the horse."

"Well, next-door Joe was complaining about the barn being a mess."

"A mess—what does that mean?"

A comfortable silence enveloped them as Sara drove, found the turn-off, and followed the progressively narrow and rough driveway to the two houses.

As she maneuvered through the last of deep ruts, Grissom groaned, "You'd think he would have fixed this driveway!"

They saw Joe Newman puttering around in the back yard of his house. They both waved and the old man started limping in their direction.

"Go ahead," Sara said, "I'll talk to him and visit the barn."

Grissom chuckled. "If you get that horse to talk, I have a few questions." He stepped out of the vehicle and headed toward the house.

Sara met Joe Newman between his house and the barn. He greeted her as a long-time friend and talked as they walked to the fenced pasture. Sara asked how long the Sullivan's had owned the horse. As they stood at the fence, the horse ambled over to them.

"Blaze is old. When Joe and Janice got out of farming they couldn't get rid of Blaze and leave the barn empty. Just wanted something living out here." He stroked the horse's neck and pulled a sugar lump from his pocket.

Sara asked, "Has there been anything that you've thought of—anything at all that was different leading up to the night of the murders?"

The old man leaned against the fence post. "The wife and I have gone over and over—just doesn't seem right that we could live as close neighbors and not know—not hear something like this."

Sara made a decision. "We believe Mr. Sullivan had money here." She watched as Newman's face changed to surprise.

"Money? Not enough to be murdered for! I doubt Joe kept fifty dollars at any one time."

Sara shook her head. "Joe Sullivan had a lot of money—a lot—and we think he might have been seen in Vegas with a lot of cash. Maybe someone followed him home."

Not believing what he had heard, Joe Newman laughed. "Joe Sully had money? He didn't have a second pot to pee in! Went into town with me every chance he got so he wouldn't have to buy gas!" He laughed again. "And you say he had money—hidden here?"

Sara nodded.

For several minutes, Mr. Newman seemed to process what he had just heard. "And you say he had money—unbelievable. Stingy would describe Joe—poor Janice." He turned to Sara. "Janice didn't know about any money he had. I don't know how I know that, but I do."

The horse swung his head toward Sara. Joe Newman passed her another sugar cube.

He said, "You know the only thing I noticed out of place was the barn. My wife heard Blaze making a racket—that's when I got up. Later when I went to the barn—that guy with you today was out there—the barn was a mess. Joe kept it neat—that morning, the bales of hay were pulled apart, just in a heap, strewn around in a mess. The hay was always stacked along the west wall." Sighing, he shook his head. "You never know—and you say Joe had money? Never knew—never thought he did."

"Mr. Newman, about the hay—I gave the horse an arm full earlier. I picked up loose hay—nothing was in bales. You are saying that's not the way it usually was?"

"Nope—bales. All of it. Tools hung up, hay stacked up."

Sara said, "Let's look in the barn."

"I mucked it out—cleaned out the stall and pushed the hay into a pile."

Joe Newman stood in the wide doorway and watched as she pulled on gloves and slowly walked around. Several times, she knelt to search through hay. She found nothing.

The old man watched. "Do you think he hid it out here?" He shook his head. "Fool," he whispered as Sara kept looking.

"You didn't see anything unusual? I'm looking for a brown leather bag."

"Nothing but hay—torn apart." The look of disbelief remained on his face. "I can't believe Joe Sully had money—I can't believe it. Just seems like a nightmare."

Sara continued searching, not sure if Joe was referring to the money or the deaths. At last she gave up, still puzzled about the hay.

"We're going to search the house—see if we can find the bag in there," Sara told the old man. "If you or Mrs. Newman think of anything, call me."

He nodded. "And you said Joe had a lot of money…" He shook his head. "Looks like it got both of them killed."

"Yes, sir."

"You going to let us know when you find who did this. I just can't imagine," his voice trailed off.

"Yes, sir. I'll call you." She turned to look at the lonesome horse, still standing at the fence. "Are you able to take care of the horse?"

"Oh, yeah—sure. It's no problem."

He shuffled toward the horse, reaching into his pocket for another treat. She headed to the house.

She called for Grissom as she entered the house and heard his response from the second small bedroom.

"Nothing," Grissom said as she entered the room. All she could see was his backside.

Sara grimaced and exhaled so loudly that Grissom pulled his head out of the closet. "I found a hidey-hole under the floor of this closet," he said. "A bundle of statements—old stuff, going back a decade or more. No brown brief case. No money."

She leaned against the wall near Grissom. "It wasn't the horse—but the hay in the barn! The hay was all torn up—Joe says it was baled hay and stacked up. And it was all scattered around—a real mess." Thoughtfully, yet with confidence, she added, "as if someone was searching for something!"

A/N_: Thank you for reading, thank you for reviewing! _


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Another chapter! Enjoy!_

**How Sweet It Is**

**Chapter 8**

They searched for hours—finding nothing. The two daughters arrived at the Newman's after a long interview with Jim Brass and D.B. Sara met with them and brought them up-to-date, seeing the incredulous looks on their faces as she told them about their father's financial assets. If anything, they were stunned with grief and this new knowledge about the man they thought they knew. Quietly, politely they answered Sara's questions and ask her questions without animosity or anger before she left them with Joe and Janice Newman.

Later, driving back to Vegas, she and Grissom realized they had no suspects—and no leads, no enemies, no pent-up hostilities from anyone in the Sullivan's life. "Eliminating someone can be just important as getting a lead," Grissom said after Sara had voiced her frustrations.

The techs watching the casino videos had seen nothing suspicious. If anything, Joe Sullivan blended in as a casual gambler so easily as to be unidentifiable from thousands of others. No one paid him any attention. Even tracking down call girls had proven to be chasing ghosts; the hotel video tapes of hallways and elevators showed no one entering his room.

When Sara walked into the lab, D.B. handed her another case.

"Sorry to do this, Sara. But we are so backed up—Greg really needs help. A brawl—two dead." He gave her an address of an area of town populated by recent immigrants from Africa.

Grissom waved at all the evidence bags they had collected. "I'll handle this—and see you later."

In two hours, Grissom managed to log all the remaining evidence, worked out a time line, made copious notes, got results from autopsy for Mrs. Sullivan, and came up empty handed. Jim Brass came by.

"How long are you going to work with us?" He asked. Settling into a chair across from Grissom, he said, "I enjoy seeing you around—seems like old times."

"Not long—until—until we find something—or not." Grissom said, "We have no leads. This guy lived quietly, miserly, yet amassed a fortune while keeping his family impoverished. I don't think there is one thing in that house that's worth a dollar. Yet he had all this wealth. I don't understand him…"

Brass scoffed. "People are always chasing the rainbow, Gil. This guy had the gold and thought what—he'd take it with him?"

Grissom finished what he was working on and left it for D.B. As a former supervisor, he knew some cases were solved quickly and others languished for days, weeks, sometimes becoming a cold case. This one needed a break—and he could find nothing.

By the time Sara, bone-weary and covered with grime, got home, he had prepared a favorite salad and had mozzarella, sliced tomatoes, and basil pesto ready for a grilled cheese sandwich. One glance and he could see exhaustion etched across her face.

She managed a smile as she dropped her jacket before kissing him. As his arms circled her body, he was not surprised at his erotic thoughts; the way her body molded to his caused his mind to jump from eating to…

Sara said, "I did not hear from you or D.B. that you solved the Sullivan murders." Her arms remained around his neck; their foreheads touched.

His expression changed to a scowl that put a grimace across his face for a few seconds. "Nothing—autopsy results on Mrs. Sullivan but there wasn't a thread or fingerprint found in that house that points in any direction." He tightened his hold on her. "Of course, all we need is patience. Somewhere in the circles surrounding Joe Sullivan, we'll find who did this."

She sighed and kissed him again. "Something about this one is a puzzle—we're missing a major piece."

While he cooked, Sara related details of the latest case—two dead men, dozens of potential witnesses who saw everything and nothing. "Then that magical break came—a young child whispered to her mother. The woman spoke an African form of French—and she named one of the men involved."

Grissom passed her a plate. "Eat!"

As they were cleaning the kitchen, by some mysterious mutual consent, Grissom's lips sought hers; she leaned a few inches closer and by the time they finished, they were moving into their bedroom. Sara marveled, always, at how deliciously light-headed she felt after kissing her husband. As he led her to bed, Sara was fully conscious of his touch, gentle, yet strong.

Strong fingers kneaded tired muscles in her back with slow, rhythmic strokes; she felt his kiss below her right ear and heard his words encouraging her to relax. Her eyes were heavy with sleep and soon Sara was dreaming of running in a field of blowing wildflowers. How sweet it is, she dreamed, as Grissom caught her hands and they danced in circles.

He opened his eyes, feeling soft fingertips tracing circles on his bare chest. Dark brown eyes, flecked with gold, were inches from his. Reaching up to cup his face with her hand, she kissed him, slowly, deliberately, taking the luxury of time as his arms closed around her. Her wishes were easily known.

Finally, murmuring against his lips, she said, "I wanted to kiss you the first time I saw you."

Her statement was part of their romance, an anecdote she would tell him at unexpected times.

Grissom's laughter came, sweetly, passionately, as he rolled, keeping her in his arms, and Sara found herself staring into pools of brilliant blue.

He said, "And I wanted to make love to you after your second question!" He kissed her again, thoroughly, parting her lips with the tip of his tongue, gently nipping hers with his teeth. Pulling her against the length of his body, he pressed his pelvis against her hips. A few seconds later, his thumb was caressing her nipple.

Sara gave a sigh and pushed her hips against the swelling between his legs. Pleasure, Sara thought, as her body responded to sensations of her husband kissing her on each eyelid, her ears, a spot near her clavicle that caused smoldering embers to shift to bolts of lightning. His warm hands smoothed across her skin, sending her nerves into overdrive as she lost sense of time and place, blotting out everything except the feel of his hands, his fingers, his lips—his fiery heat against her own warm dampness.

Exploring her husband's body, stroking, fondling with hands and lips, Sara set an avalanche of passionate emotions into play until, finally, he entered her with a sureness of welcome, calling her name as she surrendered to the inevitability of a very pleasurable climax.

Afterwards, they wrapped together, quietness enveloped the warm cocoon created, and both fell back to sleep.

Grissom woke first, carefully got out of bed, dressed, and took Hank for a long walk.

When Sara rolled over and found the bed empty, she took Grissom's pillow and placed it against her face. The familiar scent filled her nose—he had not been away from the bed very long, she thought. Her hand smoothed the pillowcase; when Grissom traveled she would sleep with his pillow until he returned. Silly, she knew, but it gave her a sense of intimacy during his absence.

She took a quick shower, pulled on a silky robe and went into the shared office. Often her best thinking occurred here, she thought; she turned Grissom's chair and sat down, pulling out a notepad as she did so. For a few minutes she let her mind review the double murders; she picked up a pen and began to write.

All the information matched or added up. No one, except his mistress, had any idea of the wealth of Joe Sullivan—the appearance of a simple man had actually been a disguise. But nothing had been found to indicate the couple had enemies or grudges among family or neighbors. She had written 'Joe and Janice Sullivan' in the center of the page, then she added the neighbors, the children, and the mistress, making a circle around the couple's name. She placed a question mark next to Harry Jordan, Janice's brother. He might have been in Canada, but he might have hired someone. No, she thought, he would not have had his sister killed. She marked out her question mark.

In each corner of the page, she listed the banks, the casino, and the hotel. She made a mark through the casino and hotel—no one had found anything suspicious about Joe Sullivan's trip to gamble. In his past, Joe might have invited women to his room, but nothing indicated it had happened on his last visit. She ticked her pen on the banks; people in banks knew things.

Sara was so deep in thought, she did not realize Grissom and Hank had returned until a cold nose touched her leg.

"Working?" Grissom asked from the doorway.

She laughed, "Trying to figure out who killed the Sullivan's." She got up and met him halfway, placing her face against his shirt. "You smell of fresh air," she said. Her nose nuzzled against his neck; his arms tightened around her body. "I've loved having you with me on this."

"You'll figure it out, dear. With or without me."

She kissed his cheek. "I wanted us to solve this one." She emphasized "us".

"I'll only be gone five days. I promised a year ago I'd present our findings and lead discussions for three days." He kissed her. "And I wish you could go with me—Bogotá is beautiful this time of year."

She shook her head, saying "I've been away so much—and with the holidays coming up, everyone wants some time off." She smiled and placed her hands on his face. "I'll see it one day—just be careful."

He chuckled, "What can happen in five days with a bunch of entomologists taking about old bugs? Water is heating for tea. Bring your thoughts and we'll see if we can solve these murders."

They drank tea and went over all possible suspects, even the neighbors and family members, trying to find a thread that would link back to Joe or Janice and the money.

Finally, Sara said, "I think we are traipsing around in a blind alley with all of this." She pointed to the corner of the page where she had written 'bank'. She said, "I know it wasn't the horse but the barn that wasn't right that night. And other than tearing it apart looking for something—money, we can assume—there was nothing else there." She tapped the paper, saying "People in banks know things—sort of like I knew the barn was messed up, but just didn't put it all together until I heard it from Mr. Newman. Someone in the bank knows something—we just have to remind them."

Grissom polished an apple on his sleeve, reached for a knife and cut the apple in half. "Go with the young teller—she remembered the brief case—she might remember something else."

That night, Sara was handed another assignment; three days passed before she had time to return to the bank.

_A/N: We appreciate hearing from you-enjoy! A few chapters left before this story will be finished. Review, please!_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Thanks for reading-we appreciate reviews!_

**How Sweet It Is**

**Chapter 9**

Sara stood in line at the bank and watched as another teller worked with one customer and then another. She waved several people ahead of her so she could observe how customers and tellers worked. As she stood in line, she could see an elderly woman counting out her money; suddenly, she realized anyone standing at the front of the line could see what was happening at the counter—especially a tall person. She stood motionless, frozen by her inspiration.

When she stepped up to the teller's window and introduced herself, the woman knew it was about the Sullivan murders. "You haven't found out who killed the Sullivan couple, have you?" She asked.

Sara shook her head, "No, and we're going back over all our information. I was hoping to see Amy Woods—the teller who waited on Mr. Sullivan when he came in."

"Oh, she's on vacation—for a week. That was awful what happened to him," said the teller. The woman smiled, glanced around and said, "She went to see her parents for a few days but she plans to return Thursday." Her voiced lowered to a whisper. "I can give you her phone number if that would help."

Sara nodded as the woman wrote the numbers on a card.

Outside of the bank, Sara called Amy Woods and explained the reason for the call. She asked if Joe Sullivan was with anyone that day.

"No," she said. "I'm sure he was alone."

"Was there anyone in line behind him?"

The young teller proved to have a good memory for that day. She said, "No, I was getting ready to go on a break and put my sign up as he left."

"Did you see him go out the door? The door closed behind him?" Sara was disappointed; she thought she had figured out how someone knew about Joe Sullivan's money.

The young woman was quiet for a moment. "The door didn't close. Someone held the door for him—two men."

Sara sensed she was back on track. "Do you remember anything about these two men? It's important."

"Young—I know they were young. I can't say how I remember that, but I do."

"Did both of them come to the counter?"

Sara heard a soft laugh. "How did you know—only one came up to the window. The other stood by the door." Amy made a soft gasp. "I remember—he bent over—must have dropped something—and then he stood by the door but he turned to look outside."

"Do you remember anything else—what he wanted?" Sara asked, desperately wishing for some kind of record with the bank.

Amy Woods laughed, saying "I remember—he had a bag of change. I was going to lunch and another teller took the change but it couldn't have been much because he was carrying a plastic bag. I don't remember giving either man a second look."

"Did you give Mr. Sullivan a receipt or anything like that with his money?"

"I did. He put it inside the little book he had in his hand—I thought it was a check book, but now that I've had time to think, it might have been one of those small blank books people use as a journal."

Sara kept her voice calm as she asked, "Do you remember what he did with the book—did he put it in the briefcase?"

"I'm sorry, I don't remember."

Sara could hear regret in Amy's voice. She asked, "When you return, would you be willing to work on a composite drawing? It might help us."

The teller did not think she could remember enough details of the man's face to help, but she agreed she would come in.

They made an appointment; for the first time, Sara thought they might have a direction, perhaps a lead.

Later, she got approval to attend the Sullivan's wake and funeral with the deputy who was first on the scene. They left disappointed; everyone in attendance had been eliminated as suspects. The daughters had welcomed their newly discovered brother with kindness and if they had an animosity bone in them, it did not rear its head during the services. Mrs. Newman stood beside Sara at the graveside and named almost every person standing with them.

Mrs. Newman asked, "Do you think you'll soon find out who did this?"

Sara gave her a vague, standard reply knowing there was a very slim change of solving the two murders.

"That was a waste of time," Sara said after she returned. As she and Grissom ate, she told him what she had learned from the teller. "A small glimmer of hope."

"You still have to find these two men," Grissom said.

After eating, they settled on the sofa to watch a favorite movie, but Sara's mind kept returning to Joe Sullivan's murder and the cruel and brutal way his wife had been tortured before dying.

She sighed. "It's too bad the bank doesn't keep video tapes."

"Well, they are usually looking for bank robbers." He stopped the movie neither one was watching, stood, and extended his hand. His head nodded toward the bedroom. "But I am surprised they don't keep them longer."

Grissom's suitcase lay open on the bed; neither said a word as he moved it to the floor. He had only a few hours before boarding a flight to Bogotá. In a simple motion, he pulled his shirt over his head, leaving his undershirt on.

Sara crawled into bed, crossed her legs, and pushed several pillows behind her back. "I know we can find these guys—I know it. The teller has a good memory—maybe looking at faces, putting together a face will help stir her memory."

Grissom got into bed with her and stretched out, placing his hand on her thigh. Her hand covered his.

Sara smiled at him. "I wanted to solve this before you left."

Slowly, his hand stroked her leg, his touch as soft as a butterfly's wing. "Sara, you don't need me—you are the investigator. All I've done is collect and listen."

She scooted down beside him. In a few hours he would be gone for five days. She would never let him know how much she missed him; how lonely she would be, again. The ache in her body would become almost unbearable in the first few days of his absence. She compensated by working—staying at the lab until she was so exhausted that sleep came rapidly. But now—

Now, Gil Grissom, her husband, the only person she had ever loved like this, was here and he was hers for a few hours.

Her fingers latched on the soft fabric of the white tee-shirt he usually wore to bed. She needed this connection, needed to be intimately and physically linked to him. For a second, she did not feel him breathe. She knew he would leave her as he had before and each time she refused to show how much she needed him.

Grissom could not breathe; his mind was filled with the thought of leaving his wife, the fragrance of her scent, the touch of her fingers, the whisper of her breath against his skin. His eyes found hers and suddenly he realized how sad she was—his hand covered hers. He leaned to her and caught her lips with his own. Her mouth moved across his, a soft, brief sweep that reminded him of a butterfly's touch.

Her hand was still holding the fabric of his shirt; he moved his hands behind her and gathered her against him. He always thought of sweetness when he kissed her. The pressure of her lips was stronger, confident; her hand moved to his neck and her fingers threaded through his hair.

His mouth opened to her and his tongue flitted inside. A sweet murmur came from Sara in a breath of air. His fingers caressed her back. He breathed into her ear; his tongue flicked against her skin, trailing down her neck to the soft depression at the base of her throat.

As his hand found the waistband of her pants, she whispered, "More."

His fingers moved underneath the fabric, finding something that surprised him. He grinned. "What's this?" He asked.

_A/N: Now click and review-gives us encouragement to post another chapter! (And it might have a bit of smut!) Don't be shy! Thanks so much!_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Here's the last chapter! Enjoy! And if you review, we might write a Christmas story!_

**How Sweet It Is**

**Chapter 10**

Grissom knew his wife had a drawer filled with colorful lace, silk, and cotton panties; she usually wore the cotton ones. He knew she had dozens of colors and every style made because he had purchased most of them. But what was between his fingers was new—a slim silky band with a rough outer surface—small stones covered the waistband.

"This is new," he growled, his voice husky with unmitigated lust. Sara knew his weakness—discovery of something new, especially when the 'something' covered her butt. Or, in this case, did not cover very much of her.

She pushed away from his chest; a smile spread across her face. "Surprise!" She whispered, a giggle bubbling around the word. Her hips pressed against his. "I decided to give you a gift before you left."

He placed both of his hands on her hips and pushed her pants down, quietly laughing as he did. Swiftly, he moved down in the bed pulling her pants off and tossing them over his head. Sara rolled onto her back as his hands moved up her bare legs. She heard a soft chuckle.

"Rhinestones? And a bow!" His fingers went underneath the bright pink fabric. His mouth touched the small triangle covering her intimate cradle. His hands slipped around to her butt. He groaned. Desire rolled through him, heating his blood, burning from brain to groin. Gliding his fingers along her cleft, he stoked her until her hands gripped his hair and her hips lifted off the bed; until she was wet and aching. He ran his fingers over her folds, separating them, stroking softly, slowly, then firmly, fast, until she knew her orgasm was coming from the touch of his fingers alone. Gently, he parted her, swirling his finger over the blooming button of her sex until her entire body flushed. With tender touches, he played and explored, knowing by the trembling muscles she was on the cusp of climax.

And then her fingers found him—caressing his erection that was straining against the fabric of his pants. She freed him and closed her hand around his penis. He groaned, knowing he had to stop her before he was pushed over the edge.

Carefully, he extradited himself from her hold, removed his pants and shirt, and, unabashedly, rose onto his knees, proudly showing off his erection, like a flag pole on a parade ground, before he bent over sparkling rhinestones.

He said, "What a surprise you are!" before he took the edge of the panties between his teeth. His mouth remained on her as his hands slipped the panties to her ankles. Kissing her where no one else had ever kissed her before caused her to gasp as an avalanche of pleasure rushed through her.

She made a noise—a moan—trying to say she would explode if he didn't get inside her—when he moved and entered her with one thrust. His movement was quick and everything she wanted. He pulled out and moved forward again, fast, several times as her body tightened. She helped, her ankles hooked tight around his hips, her heels pressing against him as he sank into her.

Sara lost track of time—everything but the pleasure of being with her husband. He lowered his face to hers and kissed her as his hands kneaded her butt, his rhythm never interrupted. Her strong contractions pulled him to the brink. His fullness increased; he cried out as the heat of ejaculation rushed from him. Her heels pushed against his lower back at exactly the perfect time, locking him as deep as he could go inside her while her sex clamped around him like a vise.

The sensation caused Sara's entire body to react until tremors shot through her, spiraling higher and higher until her climax shattered all thoughts and she fell, floating to earth, and into the warm comfort of his arms. She was still quivering—small climaxes—when Grissom took a firm grip on her hips and stroked gently out and in. His erection was mostly hard and the wetness, the increased warmth of her interior gave him an unexpected energy. Slowly, he stroked again. By her response, he knew the movement felt good to her as well.

"We can do it again, you know," he said with a chuckle.

He started slowly, caressing, kissing, fondling his wife's body before he gently rolled her over on her belly. His hands massaged her back from shoulder to hip. When he stretched to reach her shoulders, Sara could feel his erection slide from her butt up her spine—a sensation that was surprisingly erotic. Positioning her hips so she was open to him, he pressed his penis between her legs and reached her hot wet core. Reaching around her body, his fingers found her clit and began a gentle massage. She gasped—moaned—as he pushed himself inside, filling her, taking her breath away.

Her hips responded to his thrusts by pushing back; his balls tingled her skin as he kept thrusting, never slowing, building his erection as he filled her. Sara lost control, certain nothing existed but the bed and the man making himself a part of her. Fire seemed to ignite where they joined, melting skin and tissue until they were one. Her hands grabbed the pillow and twisted into knots.

Grissom caressed her hair, her breasts, turning her head so he could kiss her as he pressed her down onto the bed. When she moaned again, he said, "I like making you moan." He laughed and finally withdrew from her, rolling away from her back as she turned.

Sara smiled at the feel of his hands caressing her body. He kissed her and then wrapped arms around her and pulled her against him.

He had always maintained control of his emotions until this woman had shaken his control and moved him beyond his self-imposed loneliness. He stroked her hair as she nestled closer to his shoulder, knowing he could make love to her forever and not get enough of her. As her eyes closed, he knew he was completely happy by his need for her.

Before he closed his eyes, he made a decision. He was chasing rainbows around the world when the true love of his life was here in flesh and blood with Sara, in the heat of her love, in the gold shining in her eyes, in the place they had made their home. He kissed her temple; he knew she could never voice an objection to his long distance work yet today, the glimpse of her despair and sadness had been obvious. He did not have to leave her—not for weeks at a time. He would complete this trip in five days and when he returned, he vowed he would not leave her again.

Gently shifting to his side, he nuzzled his nose into Sara's hair and inhaled, tasted her faintly citrus scent—always reminding him of sunny days. He positioned his leg over hers, possessively, protectively; his eyes blurred with fatigue and sexual contentment and he slept.

The vibration of her phone against wood brought Sara out of sleep. It took a few seconds for her return to real time; Grissom's arm wrapped tightly around her, his leg across hers, his chest pressed against her back, the tenderness between her legs—flooded her brain with what they had recently done. She smiled.

Sex with her husband, she thought, was always great—so much better than all her exaggerated dreams from years ago. Her phone kept tapping the top of the bedside table. She reached out and checked the caller—work and her supervisor. Her phone beeped with a message.

D.B. knew Grissom was leaving today—he would not call unless it was important. She pressed to listen to his message. And even though she tried to be quiet, she did not succeed. Her slight movement caused Grissom to stir.

She curled into his arms, turning to face him. To the depths of her soul, she knew she had been born for him, to be held and caressed and cherished by this man.

"Do you need to go?"

She kissed him. "D.B. left a message." She wanted this feeling—the warmth, the intimacy—to last for hours instead of a few minutes. "The young bank teller came in." Sara sighed. "So far—nothing—she—she's not satisfied with any of the faces—she says she doesn't remember enough about the two men's faces."

"Sometimes dough rises slowly," Grissom said.

Sara laughed, then groaned at his strained metaphor and realized he was probably right. "D.B. and Ecklie want to put the case on hold because nothing has moved it forward."

She rolled onto her back. "What do you think?"

Grissom's hand rested on her belly; his chin on her shoulder. "Someone came into the bank—that's the only time we have when his money was exposed. Joe probably dropped the small book—we didn't find it or the briefcase—and who knows what he had written in the book. Maybe—probably—his name, address, notes about his money. Whoever picked it up followed him—checked out his address, walked up there in the night and killed them for the money." His hand moved to her chin; his fingers caressed her, gently stroked her face with one finger.

He said, "You'll find something. Don't let it get to you."

Sara kissed his finger as it traced across her lips. "I won't—I don't do that anymore," she chuckled. "Not as much as I once did."

They remained together for several long moments until Grissom kissed her. "I need to finish packing."

"I'll help."

Later, Sara went to work where four new cases were waiting for assignment. She and Greg headed out to a home invasion. Hours later, drinking coffee in the break room, Sara told Greg the details of the Sullivan murders.

"Have you thought about trying to reconstruct the scene—at the bank?" Greg asked.

In minutes, Sara was on the phone and in a few hours, before the bank opened for business, Amy Woods took her place behind the teller's window. Greg played the role of Joe Sullivan while Nick and D.B. played the two men who came in with a bag of change. Morgan stood in for the teller who took the change. Twice Amy Woods remembered a detail that did not seem right, having D.B. turn to look out the door and closing blinds on one window to replicate the lighting as she remembered.

"He could watch old Joe go to his car from here," D.B. said as he pointed to the small parking lot.

Afterwards, they had no new information. They were stuck, Sara realized, a standstill that needed a break. For most of the shift, she worked on the home invasion case finally leaving when she knew she was so exhausted she would sleep without thinking.

Grissom had called when he landed in Houston, Texas, and again when he landed in Columbia. Sara knew she could sleep as she pulled his pillow to her chest. Hank curled around her feet.

Her life was routine, predictable, and somewhat boring without Grissom, she thought. While he was gone, she ate, walked the dog, went to work, slept. She hugged his pillow tighter.

Her phone woke her up and by the light from the windows, she knew it was mid-morning. It was Amy Woods. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"They've come back! Get over here in a hurry!"

Sara dialed Brass who said patrol cars were on the way as he spoke. Someone had pressed the bank's alarm. Sara dressed as fast as possible, but by the time the first car arrived, the men had disappeared without doing any business at the bank.

"They were looking around!" Amy said for the third time to Jim Brass as Sara entered the bank. The girl seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when she saw Sara. "Do you think you'll catch them now?"

"Yes," said Sara. "This time we have the bank's video."

The tape showed two men who came into the bank, glanced at the line, one shook his head, and both left.

D.B. and Brass called everyone in. Greg had printed the doors at the bank but found only smudges and smears on the handles.

D.B. threw out the first question, "Why did they go back to the same small bank?"

"First, they live in the vicinity," Morgan said. "And, second—they made a lucky catch."

"And today, the bank was full of people—no one was old in line," Sara said as they watched the tape again.

Brass nodded at the screen. "These men are dangerous. If they are already looking for more victims…"

"If they are the ones," Sara said. "We don't know that yet."

Ecklie was standing at the door. "We'll release photographs—say they are 'persons of interest'—try to get something going."

Sara called Grissom and shared the news with him. "You'll find them," he assured her. "Someone will recognize them—especially if they have been spending a lot of money."

The next afternoon, a caller identified the two men as venders of a stall at a large flea market in North Las Vegas.

"I know the place," Brass said as he headed out. "Ride with me, Sara. That place is open today." He radioed for deputies to meet him.

There was already a throng of people at the flea market so Brass sent the deputies in several directions and instructed Sara to follow him.

"I don't want you in danger."

Sara and Brass saw the two men at the same moment. They were standing behind a table covered with brightly colored purses and bags. A sign announced the price—cheap. A few seconds ticked by before the men recognized they were under scrutiny, not only by Brass and Sara but two deputies who had walked up.

Suddenly, everything seemed to happen at once. One of the men pulled a gun from under the table and took two quick shots. One thudded into a sign post near Sara; she ducked. One of the deputies fired and the shooter yelled as he grabbed his shoulder. His gun flew out of his hand. The deputy lunged at the table, which broke in two, and the two men landed in a jumble of purses.

"Go after the other guy," Brass yelled at the second deputy. Sara took off with him running as they both tried to find the runner in the crowd. People pulled away as they ran. Sara thought the man had managed to disappear when she saw him heading toward the western edge of the market.

"He's here," she shouted. She clicked her phone and immediately got Brass. "West side," she panted.

Sara was ahead of the deputy as she cleared the market and arrived at the parking lot. She could see the guy running twenty yards ahead of her. Pounding feet of the deputy were close behind so she ran, lost sight of the runner as he ducked behind a van and a couple of trucks and then saw him again as he ran along a tall chain fence.

As quickly as the chase had started, it was over. The man was cornered; the deputy had managed to get to the fence from another direction. Then Sara noticed the man had a knife; that's the knife he used on the Sullivan's, Sara thought.

Early in the afternoon, Don Luther, the man who had pulled the gun, confessed that they had committed the murders, blaming it all on the other man. When confronted with the confession, the second suspect, Bob Mansfield, blamed the violence on his partner.

Everything had happened as Sara had thought. The two men had gone into the bank with a bag of coins. Joe Sullivan had dropped his small book as he had exited the bank. They had followed him around town, had followed him to his farm, gone back several times to check for dogs and security alarms and found none.

"The old man wouldn't tell us where he had hidden the money—not until his old lady was dead," Bob Mansfield said. "It was in the barn—in the hay."

"Why the knot?" Sara asked. "On the woman."

The man looked confused for a few seconds and then shrugged. "Don did that."

When she asked the same question to the other man, his answer was "Bob did that." Neither wanted to admit to being behind the insane violence against an old woman. Neither man could tell them how much money was in the brief case; they had spent it with such wanton recklessness they had little to show—expensive watches on their wrist, call girls, a night of gambling—and they had gone out searching for another victim.

Sara related all of this to Grissom. They discussed what they had found and collected as evidence when the teller had held the key.

"You kept at it," said Grissom. "You did not give up. That's the important thing."

They continued talking until it was time for him to go to his conference. He said, "Its beautiful here, Sara. There was a rainbow over the city today."

"Ahh—" she laughed. "Did you go searching for the gold at the end of the rainbow?"

His voice deepened, "My gold isn't at the end of a rainbow, dear. It's in Vegas." His soft laugh warmed Sara's soul. He continued, "I'll see you soon."

She pulled his pillow to her chest. "I love you, Gil."

"You know I love you. I'll be home soon."

A/N: _and this concludes this one! We appreciate hearing from you-so take a minute and send a review! Thanks!_


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